


Like Father, Like Son?

by TulipGirl



Category: Chanoey - Fandom, Friends (TV)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Open Marriage, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28862520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TulipGirl/pseuds/TulipGirl
Summary: This story begins approximately 1 year after the Friends finale but includes flashbacks. It also progresses in time throughout the story. Some verbatim scripts have been used from the show, however additional information or character inflections have been added to portray different context to certain scenes.Warning - This story features a suicide attempt and references to depression.
Relationships: Chandler Bing/Joey Tribbiani, Chandler Bing/Monica Geller
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, hey man … you don’t want to be doing that … trust me,” a woman’s voice says beside me.

She clamps her hand down on my shoulder and pulls me back from the edge of the platform. Just as the 5.30 am express rushes past. I barely register her voice let alone the life-saving gesture she just bestowed upon me.

Coming around in front of me, she looks me head-on, “Are you OK?” she asks gently.

I just stare back at her. For some reason all I can focus on are her eyes, such a nice hazel colour, they seem kind. Slowly, I process what she asked me and shake my head. No, I am definitely not OK. Jesus, even thinking those words causes the tears to come back. In all my life I haven’t cried as much as I have this past year, and lately, its almost a daily occurrence. The kind lady notices my distress. Gently she touches my forearm and nods.

“Well, let’s just walk over here and sit down … we can talk about it, if you want,” she says, indicating a bench by the fence. I glance at the seat. It is maybe five yards away. It’s empty. Nodding in agreement, I allow her to guide me. There aren’t many people at the station, it’s still quite early. The few others are at the other end of the platform near the office, they don’t appear to have noticed my incident.

“What’s your name?” she asks me kindly as we sit.  
“Chandler,” I reply quietly.  
“Hi, Chandler … I’m Lisa, nice to meet you,” she replies with a warm smile. I don’t return the smile, rather I just keep looking at her eyes. They have me captivated for the moment.  
“Is there anyone you would like me to call for you?” Lisa asks me.

It’s an interesting question, she doesn’t demand that I provide a name or a number, she doesn’t call 911 or any other authority agency, she simply asks me what I would like to do. I find comfort in that. It’s my choice. 

Shaking my head, I respond to her offer, “No, thank you. I don’t want to bother anyone. Especially not my wife.”   
“Chandler," she asks, "would you like to talk to me?”

This question also surprises me. I figured she would insist I call Monica. I mean who wouldn’t want to offload the weird suicidal stranger they just encountered at the station at 5.30 am. Clearly not Lisa. 

I stare at her for a moment. Before shaking my head. “It’s nothing … I really shouldn’t be bothering you, I’m sure you have somewhere you need to be.”

This is a variation of my default answer to everyone who has asked me over the past year if I am OK. People have certainly been noticing that I'm not myself. Colleagues at work, the staff at our local shops, the receptionist at our paediatrician’s office, my friends, and most of all Monica. I always brush them off with an “I’m fine” type comment, usually with a smile and a joke. But this morning I can’t muster the energy to think of a joke, and I really don’t feel like smiling. This scares me ... a lot.

“I can stay as long as you need me,” Lisa replies.  
“I should be OK. I’m just really tired, I’m always tired lately,” I say, truthfully.

With a whoosh of brakes, my train pulls up at the platform, distracting us both. The 5.38 am train to Manhattan. I look over at it but make no effort to stand. I look back at Lisa.

“Is that your normal train?” she asks.  
“Yeah,” I reply. It occurs to me that it is probably her train as well, and I’m making her miss it.  
“You should go, you’ll miss the train,” I urge her.

She shakes her head … “It’s OK, I can catch another one,” she tells me.

The doors close, the whistle is blown, and the train slowly pulls away.

“Do you work in the city?” Lisa asks.  
“Yeah, Bridgeport Advertising,” I reply in an unenthusiastic tone. My selfish decision to change careers and almost halve my salary has resulted in us having no savings and a mountain of debt.  
“I know that place, you do the commercials for Kitty Kat Kibble don’t you?” she says.

I’m surprised by this. Not many people have heard of my workplace. We’re such a small agency.

“Yeah … that’s us. Although not my account,” I tell her.  
“What products do you look after?” she asks me with genuine interest.

I can appreciate why she might think I have actual accounts under my responsibility. I'm nearly 40 years old, she probably assumes I'm an account executive. Nope, not yet.

“I’m just a copywriter, I’m relatively new to this industry,” I explain.  
“Do you like your job?” she asks me.  
“I used to. Before we moved house. Now I resent it,” I reply, truthfully. For some reason, I’m finding Lisa quite easy to talk to. With every question that she asks, I feel like opening up more.  
“Why is that?” she asks.  
“We’re having some money difficulty at the moment, this job doesn’t pay as much as my previous one,” I confess.  
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replies.  
“I shouldn’t be bothering you with my problems. You've been so kind. I really should go.” But for some reason, I don’t get up.  
“Chandler, you can stay if you want. I am happy to talk,” she said, reaching out and touching my hand.  
“Ok,” I reply.

Her fingers are soft and quite warm. Looking down at our hands, I don’t make any effort to move away. It feels nice like this.

“How long have you been married?” she asks.  
“Four years,” I reply, sadly.

Tomorrow is our anniversary. This is one of the reasons in a long chain of events that has resulted in me finding myself at this point. If Lisa thinks it’s strange that I'm so unenthusiastic about my anniversary or seemingly my marriage she doesn’t show it. She just continues to hold my hand and talk to me in her soft reassuring voice.

“What is her name?”  
“Monica,” I reply.

I can’t seem to muster the strength to provide much more than one or two-word answers to Lisa’s questions.

“You said you didn’t want to bother her, why is that?”  
“She'll be busy … with our twins,” I tell her in my longest, most detailed answer yet.  
“Oh, you have twins? How old?” she asks with a broad smile.  
“They just turned one last week … Jack and Erica,” I say anticipating her next question and supplying their names before she can ask.  
“Do you have photos?” she asks.

I hesitantly reach for my wallet and show her the two family photos I carry with me. One of the kids on their own, a professional portrait that was taken at the local mall a few months ago. The other a family snapshot of the four of us, taken last Christmas. I don’t want to look at the photos, not because I don’t love my kids ... I do … but because I know I'm a terrible father and I’m going to mess them up for life.

“They’re adorable,” Lisa comments.  
“Yeah,” I reply dully, then I hear myself say a phrase I have only thought to myself until now …  
“I don’t deserve them.”

Lisa looks up sharply, her eyes meeting mine. But she doesn’t judge, reprimand, or dismiss the comment. Rather she probes deeper.  
“Why do you say that?” she asks gently.  
“I … I’ve made a huge mistake … and now it’s too late,” I mutter.  
“Too late?” she asks me with a concerned look on her face.  
“He’s gone,” I say simply.

I realise that Lisa has no idea who I’m talking about, but I don’t have the energy or the emotional stability to explain. My eyes have watered up again and this time I can’t stop the tears from pouring down my cheeks. To her credit she doesn’t try to talk anymore, rather, she leans forward and hugs me. It is a strong embrace. She literally pulls me towards her chest and holds me tightly. I rest my head on her shoulder and cry. Normally, I would be humiliated to be displaying this sort of raw emotion in public, but today I just don’t care.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m gay,” I state bluntly.

Monica just stares at me with a baffled expression on her face. She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it without managing to find any words.

“Chandler, remember what we discussed … you have to be more descriptive,” Martin tells me.  
“Sorry … Monica, I haven’t been honest with you or myself or anyone really … I … I … I’m gay,” I repeat with a little more detail, although probably not the amount she needs.

We’re in a group counselling session. It’s been six months since that fateful day at the train station. Lisa, bless her soul, managed to get me to a doctor’s office and I was referred to a psychiatrist. I have been taking medication to help with what my therapist, Martin, says is temporary depression brought on by a complete state of emotional repression. There is a more technical medical name for my condition but basically, it translates to the fact that I have been kidding myself for many years and it finally culminated in me wanting to kill myself.

At the station that morning, Lisa had stayed with me for more than two hours, holding me, letting me cry, listening to me. Then she waited at the doctor’s surgery for another hour whilst I saw the doctor. She was the one who called Monica and told her about the incident. She also visited Monica at home in the days after, when I was still in the hospital. They formed quite a bond. She's our guardian angel. Corny I know, but I don’t care. Neither does Lisa. She's told me more than once that I remind her of her son and she feels honoured to have been the one to help.

Monica has also been amazing, as have our extended friends and family. I haven’t revealed the true reasons for my depression to anyone except my therapist at this stage. That’s what today is all about. But everyone has rallied to help. Ross and Rachel have been living in Paris for the past year, where Rachel is working and Ross is writing another dissertation, however, they both flew home to visit me in the immediate days after the incident. Phoebe and Mike have also been frequent visitors.

Amazingly, one of the most supportive people in my inner circle has been Jack, my father in law, who I had previously thought didn’t care much for me. He spent several hours visiting with me during my initial week-long stay in the hospital and told me all about how his brother had had depression and how he was determined to help me get better. Monica’s parents even sold their beach house to help us out of our debt, which is what I have been attributing the depression to. 

Joey hasn’t been able to visit so far, he's filming a movie in Australia, but he has called several times.

However, even with all the support, there is still the underlying issue that requires attention. Martin and I have been preparing for weeks. Monica deserves to know, I'm aware of this, and today is our first joint counselling session.

“What do you mean you’re gay? We’re married, you and I have … well we … sometimes … actually that sort of makes sense,” Monica replies, going through an entire gauntlet of realisation in a matter of seconds.

Monica and I haven’t had sex in more than 15 months. Recently, I haven’t been able to muster any sort of physical response in that context at all. Not since we moved from the city to Westchester.

“Monica, how do you feel about what Chandler has told you,” Martin asks her.  
“Do you still love me?” she asks me. It isn’t exactly an answer to his question but close enough. He doesn’t correct her, rather, he turns to me to see what my response is going to be.  
“Yes,” I reply, truthfully … “Yes, of course, I do. I just can’t keep denying this any longer,” I tell her.  
“When did you come to this … this … realisation?” she asks in a nervous voice.

I take a deep breath because I know she isn’t going to like my answer.

“Part of me has always known. Since I was a teenager. But a very large part of me was absolutely determined to deny it … I told myself that I was straight so often, I sort of convinced myself,” I say.  
“But … you’ve always said you hated your Dad for what he did to you … and now you’re going to do the same thing to me … to us?” she asks me, tears brimming in her eyes.

I can’t stand to see her so upset. I know I'm also going to cry. I stand and start pacing around the room.

“I never wanted to hurt you Mon, I do love you … you have to believe me. None of this was intentional. I thought I could manage the feelings, subdue them somehow. It worked for quite a while until we moved and … and … he left,” I tell her, essentially providing a brief summary of six months’ worth of therapy.

“Who left? Are you saying you have had a … a … lover? A male lover?” she asks me incredulously.

I look over at Martin. We have discussed this, and I know I have to tell her, but I also know she isn’t going to take it well. Martin just nods. It’s time. Sinking back onto the sofa, I find myself burying my face in my hands, unwilling to look at her. I’m too ashamed. Finally, I gather courage and lookup.

“Monica... I’ve had many lovers over the years … male ones … but the one I’m referring to is …” I trail off because the look on her face at my revelation is one of complete and utter shock and I know she isn’t listening anymore.  
“Monica? Are you alright?” Martin asks her … “Perhaps we should take a break.”

She's staring at me, eyes wide, her hand clasped over her mouth stifling a gasp. I reach over and take her free hand in mine. She doesn’t pull away. Surely that’s a good sign. She just continues to look at me with those wide stunned eyes.

“Monica,” I say trying to get her to saying something … anything.  
“Lovers? Plural. When? Who?” she asks.

They are fair questions. Martin had told me to expect them. She has a right to know.

“Mainly strangers … I frequent certain clubs … at least I used to. I honestly haven’t been to one since you and I began dating. But I … I hated myself for doing it … for needing to do it …” I inform her.  
“You … you … had sex with strange men?” she says, basically paraphrasing what I have just told her.

I can imagine her mind working overtime trying to compute this information. I have never, ever shared this secret with my friends. Well, one of them knows. But to the others, I have always vehemently denied being gay, even when they all said I had a quality or when I struggled to find a girlfriend. When Monica and I happened, in London, I truly thought I could make it work, if I tried hard enough.

“I am so sorry Monica. You deserve so much more than a lame duck husband like me,” I conclude.  
“Chandler, try to explain your feelings and the events without insulting yourself,” Martin counsels.  
“So, what are you planning to do Chandler? Are you asking me for a divorce? Are you leaving us?” Monica asks suddenly. She seems to have gathered her thoughts and found her voice again.  
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly … “I don’t want to leave you, or the kids, I really do love you all, but I understand that this isn’t fair to you.”  
“I love you too,” she replies, surprising me. I look at her with a questioning expression.  
“You do? Even though…?”  
“Yes … of course. I can’t just switch that off … even in the face of this … um… news. I wish you had told me earlier, but I understand why you haven’t,” she tells me.

Monica, of course, knows all about my Dad and the emotional rollercoaster he put me on as a child. The revelation when I was 10 years old that he and my Mom were divorcing because he was gay and was leaving us to go live in Las Vegas hit me very, very hard. It had also had a lasting impact on my Mom, causing her to overcompensate with her sexuality. She was forever trying to make herself sexier and attract as many guys as she possibly could. There was so much plastic surgery, sexy clothing, those erotic novels, and a string of lovers.

Then came the news that my Dad was not only gay but transgender, and was going to be having surgery to become a woman. This all occurred before I turned 12. I essentially went into adolescence as a very confused young man who was absolutely determined to be nothing like either of my parents. Hence the extremely boring career path, the dull clothing choices, the emotional repression, and the constant attempts at heterosexuality to the point of getting married and adopting two beautiful children before realising it was so completely and utterly hopeless.

Both my parents have been to visit in the past few months. The visits were OK. It’s not like I hate either of them, I just wish they hadn’t made those life choices. Of course, we didn’t talk about any of the underlying issues. Martin had wanted me to, especially with my Dad, but I hadn’t felt ready yet.

“Chandler …” Martin’s voice breaks me away from my thoughts and returns me to the current situation … “I think it's time you told Monica the rest of the story.”  
“What? There’s more?” Monica asks in a surprised anxious tone.

She’s looking from me to Martin in an impatient manner. I take another deep breath.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I admit.

Her face which had begun to return to normal after the shock of my previous revelations is now pale and tense as she waits anxiously for whatever I'm about to tell her. But before I can start she interjects with a question of her own …

“You’re not going to tell me that you have … AIDS … are you?”  
“What? No. Of course not. Oh, Monica … I’m so sorry to put you through this, but I have always been ‘safe’ in that regard … always,” I tell her urgently. I can’t believe I didn’t think about that, she must have been terrified after hearing about my exploits.

Her face relaxes a bit after hearing my reassurance. “Go on …” she urges.

I take another deep breath and prepare myself for the second major revelation of the morning.

“I said that I hadn’t visited any of those clubs, or picked up strange men, since you and I have been together … and that is true. But … I … I haven’t always been faithful to you …” I say trailing off.

Her face crumples, tears brim in her eyes … again … or still, I'm not sure if they’d ever cleared away since the first time I broke her heart a few minutes ago. Oh God, I'm such a bastard.

“Who?” she asks.  
“You know him … it’s …”  
“Joey,” she interrupts, finishing my sentence. She knows me well. She’s now crying openly.

I nod silently. Tears are also now free-flowing down my cheeks.

Yes, Joey and I had been lovers, and it had not ended well. Now he lives in Los Angeles, and he and I haven’t seen each other for 18 months.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **FLASHBACK** – Seven years ago (before London, before Monica).

“Hey, you’re back … do you want the regular?” the bartender asks me as I approach. I nod to him and he fixes me a vodka tonic. He doesn’t know my name, but he sees me here a lot.

I swivel around on the stool and survey the room. It’s a small bar, my normal haunt, I come here every month … sometimes twice a month. There are several couples dancing and a few others sitting at some nearby tables. The music is pumping and the lighting is dim.

It doesn’t take me long to find him. He’s a regular here, and we’ve had a few trysts before. I have no idea what his name is and I have no desire to find out. Luckily he seems to feel the same. He has dark hair, a lean body and is very good looking. My type. He’s dancing with two friends although he doesn’t appear to be with either of them.

I approach the dance floor, even though I have absolutely no intention of dancing. I tap him on the shoulder and ask him a silent question with my eyes. He looks at me for a moment before nodding in answer to my request. We head in the direction of the men’s room.

I don’t always have sex in these bars, sometimes I can’t find anyone suitable, other times they’re not keen on my preferences and all I get is a blow job. But not this time. I know this particular guy is more than willing to accommodate me. I’m glad because tonight I’m feeling particularly antsy … it’s been awhile … and it’s been a stressful time at work.

In the cramped confines of the stall, we get started. There is very little talking. I hate small talk and he knows that. He knows what I like and doesn’t muck around. Unbuckling my pants he discovers that I’m already hard. He rolls the condom on my dick, then kneels down and sucks me for a minute or two. I steady myself against the sides of the stall and close my eyes, trying to filter out all the unpleasant atmosphere and give in to my inner desire. It doesn’t take long.

Suddenly, I take control. With a force that takes him by surprise, I grab him by the arm and perform a lift and spin manoeuvre that results in him facing the wall.

Something just possesses me when I visit these clubs, I become a very different person. This Chandler knows exactly what he wants, he's dominant, penetrating conquests with such force they usually scream out in a combination of surprise, pain, and extreme pleasure all at once. It’s not rape, the men always consent, but it is definitely not affectionate, gentle, or drawn out. This is the only way that I can allow myself to partake in this guilty pleasure. In my confused and damaged mind, I reason I’m not really gay if I'm the dominate one who doesn’t get emotionally attached. This is just a physical act to meet a need. The intelligent me knows that this is bullshit, but I can’t allow myself to admit it.

“Wow,” my anonymous partner murmurs in breathless anticipation.

I don’t reply, instead, I lean in close to him and drink in the distinctly masculine aroma of cologne and sweat that I crave so much. With one hand I reach around and unbuckle his pants, pushing them over his hips and allowing them to fall in a pile around his ankles. He is not wearing underwear. I lick my fingers and use them to open and moisten his ass before I plunge myself into him, hard.

“Fuck!” he exclaims loudly. I know for a fact that this particular guy really gets off on my technique.

I thrust repeatedly and with abandon. He's groaning but I’m barely listening. All I can concentrate on is the rush of endorphins I'm feeling. The tightness of his ass around my cock, the smell of his musky cologne competing against the less pleasant smell of the toilet, and most importantly the thrill of abandoning my inhibitions and partaking in my true desire.

“Harder!” He cries out and I comply. We’re making quite a commotion in the stall, but that is not unusual for this place and I know we won’t be bothered.

With one hand I reach around to his front and grasp hold of his cock. He moans with pleasure as I expertly massage him. I’m quite good at this. From this angle, it is not unlike playing with myself.

“Yeah … oh, God yes,” he cries out. His cock is quite large and rock hard. He rocks his hips back and forth in tandem with my hand and my cock. For a minute or two, we maintain this rhythmic motion with a level of expertise that only comes with repeated practice. This guy is my favourite random hook-up.

“Fuck … now man … now!” he suddenly cries out as he explodes, splattering against the wall.

It doesn’t take me much longer, it’s hard to sustain one’s self when the rush is so intense. With an exclamation of relief I cum, hard, and semi-collapse against his shoulder. I’m breathing heavily and struggle to regain my composure. There is a slightly awkward moment as I withdraw and discard the condom. He uses toilet paper to wipe the wall. We pull up our pants.

I can’t look him in the eye and we don’t speak. There is a mutual agreement that these encounters are very much anonymous and serving only one purpose. I’m already feeling that unpleasant feeling of shame. It happens every time. I begin thinking about my normal life and how different I have to act around everyone else in my life, colleagues, family, and most importantly my friends.

He leaves the stall first. I take a moment to fully compose myself before I also exit into the main area of the men’s room. I approach the sinks and begin washing my hands.

“Chandler?” a familiar voice calls my name in apparent surprise.

I spin around, sure enough, the familiar voice belongs to Joey, he’s here … in a gay bar … and I’m pretty sure he heard the activities that I was just partaking in. Fuck!

I just look at him. I have no idea what I to say. My recent conquest is drying his hands nearby. He looks over at me, then at Joey … smiles at Joey in an approving way, looks back at me, notices my complete look of horror, chuckles to himself and exits. That leaves just us.

“Who was that? Were you just … with him? Are you?” Joey asks me in a series of rapid-fire questions as his gaze follows the departing stranger and then returns to me as he realises that I was clearly one of the one’s making all that commotion a few moments ago.

“I don’t want to talk about it Joe,” I say, pushing past him out of the men’s room and proceeding to exit the club as quickly as I possibly can.

I know he’s following me. I hear him call my name but I don’t stop to wait. My mind is racing. I've always been very careful to hide this part of my life. Every ounce of my being has gone into not being publicly gay, including complete and utter denial to my friends. I quickly stride along the sidewalk, not waiting for Joey. He must have had a coat checked in or something else that held him up at the door because he’s a fair way behind me. But I know he’s still following, I can hear my name being called, even over the noise of the traffic.

What on Earth was he doing there? He’s not gay. I’m certain of that. Surely he knew what type of club it was, that is immediately obvious upon entering that type of establishment. Was he with someone else? Was it an experimental outing? A joke perhaps? Oh, for God’s sake, of all the places he had to turn up … why there?

Our apartment building is four blocks away. He finally catches up to me at the top of the last block.

“Geez Chandler, why didn’t you wait for me,” he says … out of breath from running.  
“Joey … I … I …” I stammer, unable to talk properly.  
“Look man … what you want to do in your private life doesn’t bother me, I won’t say anything,” he says kindly. I look sideways at him. He seems quite concerned.  
“Thanks,” is all I can say.

We walk along in silence the rest of the way. Back at our apartment I simply have to ask him, it’s killing me not knowing …

“Why were you there?” I ask.  
“A bunch of us from Days of Our Lives were there … a few of the cast and crew are gay,” he tells me.

Joey is pretty relaxed about this conversation. Whilst he talks he opens the fridge and grabs two beers before opening one and handing me the other. Sitting at one of the counter stools, he takes a swig and casually reads the comic on the cereal packet. I, on the other hand, am standing up against the front door, holding my unopened beer, almost paralysed by this interaction.

“But not you?” I ask.

I fully expect him to vehemently confirm my statement, but surprisingly, he shrugs.

“I’ve done stuff before … ages ago … it’s not really my cup of tea, but it’s OK,” he says casually as if he was describing a Sunday drive in the country.  
“You? Really? I would never have thought that,” I reply stupefied.  
“Well, I could say the same about you. What is it with you anyway? You’ve always told us that you’re 100% straight but you hook up with good looking strangers in the men’s room of gay bars. For what ... kicks?” he asks looking at me expectantly.

I consider his question for a moment. Yeah … that pretty much sums me up.

“I’m not gay,” I say. It is probably the most unconvincing statement ever uttered.  
“Are you sure? What I heard certainly sounded like someone who was acting gay,” he replies.

I swallow nervously. I have a sudden urge to leave the apartment and never return.

“I … I … don’t want to be gay,” I say quietly, revising my earlier statement.  
“Oh. Why? Because of your Dad?” he asks.

I just nod. It all seems so pathetic really. I’ve tried to rationalise it many times. Tried to tell myself that it’s not a bad thing if I’m gay, that I won’t necessarily turn out exactly like him. It’s not like I have a family to abandon or anything. But a very strong part of my self-conscience will simply not allow it. Something has been permanently etched in my psyche that says I will be an utter failure of a person if I allow myself to go down that path. Madness I know but almost impossible to ignore, at least for me.

“Chandler … I really think you should talk to someone,” Joey says in between swigs of his beer.  
“What like a shrink? … No thank you,” I state in a very determined tone.  
“It might help … you are clearly confused. I mean have you ever gone on an actual date with a guy? Or had sex in a normal place … like a bed? Or has it always been in toilets like tonight? ” he asks me.

This is probably the most profound thing I have ever heard Joey say, he really does know me. I look down at my shoes and fiddle with the unopened bottle of beer in my hand. It's very obvious I haven’t had a meaningful or loving gay encounter in my life.

Feeling sorry for myself, I don’t even hear him approach.

Suddenly his fingers are gently caressing my cheek. I look up, he's standing right in front of me. Our eyes meet and hold for a few seconds. My mind is literally screaming. Every instinct in my body is saying I need to move away, reject his gesture, make a joke, or otherwise protect myself from showing this side of myself to Joey, my friend. I have to fight to stay still and not flee. This is absolutely not like any of my previous encounters. Never in a million years would I permit one of those strangers to get so close to me, to make eye contact with me, to touch my face. Never.

But I don’t stop Joey.

Slowly, very slowly, he leans in and kisses me. At first, it’s a brief brushing of his lips against mine. He begins to pull away but then returns, this time with more urgency. I’ve never kissed another man before. It's never seemed necessary in my simple quest to just get my rocks off. A few of the strangers have tried but I’ve always brushed them away. That’s why I prefer my regular hook-up guy from earlier, he knows my preferences and doesn’t try anymore.

But this kiss is very different. This feels OK. In fact, I realise, with a shock, that I actually like it.

I open my lips and begin to kiss him back. He tastes of beer and mint. I can also smell his cologne, a familiar scent that I often smell in the bathroom after he's been getting ready for a date. It smells nice. I shuffle closer to him, pressing myself up against his body, deepening our embrace.

Suddenly there is an almighty crash and the distinctive sound of breaking glass. I’ve dropped my beer bottle on the ground and it has broken. We stop kissing and pull apart. There is broken glass and spilt beer everywhere. I survey the mess. It’s enough to shatter the moment between us.

The familiar feeling of shame and avoidance begins to wash over me. Without so much as a single word I turn and rush out of the apartment. Leaving Joey to clean up the mess.

I walk aimlessly around the local streets for hours. Fighting my inner demons. That was the single most tender homosexual encounter I have ever allowed myself. Unfortunately, the shame I am feeling now is on a whole new level and I don’t know how to handle it. I liked the kiss. I really enjoyed kissing Joey. It felt nice, it felt comfortable, it felt gay. Oh, God, why can’t I just accept this about myself? Surely, it’s not that difficult. Maybe Joey’s right, maybe I do need to talk to someone.  
__________

The apartment is dark and quiet when I return hours later. The only light is coming in from the neighbours light outside our windows. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realise Joey is not waiting to talk to me. The kitchen is clean and tidy. I walk quietly into the living room. Joey’s bedroom door is shut, I assume he is in there … probably alone. I pause between our two doors. I’m extremely undecided about what I want.

Part of me wants to go to him, be with him. However, a much stronger part of me is telling me that this is wrong and disgusting.

Is he even still awake? I’ve been gone for more than three hours. It’s quite late. But something tells me he is probably not asleep. Without consciously making a decision, I find myself inching closer to his door. I realise the door isn’t closed completely, I’m able to push it open silently.

The room is dark and it smells unmistakably like Joey, but not in a bad way. I can’t really see much, but I can make out the dark shape of his bed. He’s not snoring, but I’m not sure if he’s awake or not.

“Come here Chandler,” his voice suddenly calls.

I make a soft murmur sound as I realise that not only is he awake but that he is beckoning me into his room and his bed. I gradually approach.  
When I reach his bedside I can see more clearly. He’s lying under the covers looking up at me. He extends one arm out and takes my hand in his, gently encouraging me to lay down. 

“Are you OK?” he asks.  
“I don’t know,” I reply truthfully.  
“You freaked out a bit … hey?” he says, recalling the unpleasant earlier events.  
“Yeah,” I reply.  
“I’m sorry if I upset you. I just thought it might help … you know …” he says trailing off.  
“Thank you … it did help, a bit. I liked it,” I confess.  
“You haven’t kissed a man before?” he asks in a somewhat confused tone.  
“No,” I reply simply.  
“Oh,” he replies.

We’re not looking at each other. I’m staring up at the ceiling and I think he is too. He’s still holding my hand though.

“Joey … I … I’m pretty screwed up, about all this, always have been. It’s not something I ever planned for you or any of the others to find out about. It was my little guilty secret, my weakness,” I say trying to explain my behaviour and feelings in a way that doesn’t make me seem like a complete loon.

“It’s OK, we don’t have to talk about it or do anything,” he replies, quietly.  
“Oh…” I hear myself say.

That was not the phrase I would have expected myself to say. I believe I’m actually a bit disappointed. He seems to have picked up on my reaction.

“Or we could … you know … just kiss a bit more… if you want,” he says rolling onto his side and looking at me.

I turn my head and look at him for a few moments before replying. For the first time in my life, I manage to find the strength to ignore the stupid voice in my head.

“I’d like that,” I tell him.

Even though it’s quite dark my eyes have adjusted sufficiently. I can make out his facial expression, he’s smiling at me. He leans in closer and then we’re kissing again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Flashback** – 6.5 years ago (The night I hook up with Monica).

“Oh, God … Chandler … fuck!” Joey exclaims quite loudly. 

I lean in close to him and nuzzle at the side of his face, running my tongue seductively over his earlobe before repositioning myself higher above him so we can continue to rock together in tandem. He’s lying in the hotel bed, staring up at me, his legs spread to allow me access and then wrapped tightly around my waist. 

As usual, I am on top. I’m always on top. But this position is different to my earlier encounters pre-Joey. This is much more intimate. It’s a position that I had never considered being in with a man. That was until Joey showed me some new techniques. 

He had been absolutely stunned to find out that I preferred the more dominant position. He’d said that surprised him more than finding out I was gay. He’d assumed it was me being pounded by that guy in the toilet stall that night, not the other way around. 

Joey had been willing to relinquish control to me, when we eventually had sex a few nights after our initial kiss, but he had absolutely refused to do it in my normal manner. Instead, he insisted I learn to relax and enjoy myself and make love to him. It had been a revelation for me. I had thoroughly enjoyed myself as did he. At least that’s what his fairly vocal reactions had clearly indicated. 

Joey is going to cum soon, I know his signs. His eyes are rolling back, he’s moaning constantly and he’s frantically massaging his cock in an incredibly sexy display of self-gratification.

I thrust harder and faster, pushing deep inside of him, pressing up against his prostate because I know that will make him tip over the edge.

“Oh Jesus! Aaahhh …” he exclaims as he cums all over himself, sighing in relief. 

But I don’t stop. I can’t now … my momentum is about to crest as well. Two final thrusts and I feel that familiar sensation as my whole body shudders and I release myself deep inside. Exhausted, I collapse against his heaving torso, not caring about the sticky residue between us. He wraps his arms around me and we lay there for several minutes catching our breath.

After we recover Joey hops out of bed, visits the bathroom, and then starts to get dressed.

“Where are you going?” I ask him.  
“Downstairs. I told that bridesmaid chick that I’d meet her for a drink,” he tells me as he looks around for his shirt.

I watch quietly as he dresses. I’m not jealous, well not exactly. I have never put a claim on Joey or limited him in any way. In fact, I was extremely adamant that he not alter his current life on my account. I am definitely not ready to admit to being gay, despite my growing feelings for Joey. So, he has continued to date women, lots of women, just like normal. 

I have stopped frequenting those gay bars. I’m happy with my regular hook-ups with Joey. I think he’s happy as well. We don’t really talk about it. Although, lately I’ve started to feel a bit different. I want something more. Part of me really wants him to commit to me, to tell me he loves me and for him to say he wants to stop dating women. But my other side, the one that is really insecure, internally homophobic, and shit-scared, is happy to keep it casual and well and truly closeted. 

We’re in London, for Ross and Emily’s wedding. The ceremony is tomorrow. We had the rehearsal dinner earlier and afterwards Joey and I came up to our hotel room and one thing led to another…

“I think I’ll turn in, what with the big day tomorrow and all,” I tell him. I have no idea where he gets all his sexual energy, he’s like the bloody energiser bunny … he just keeps going and going.

He looks at me and smiles.

“Sure … I’ll try and be quiet when I come in … if I come in, these British girls … they’re something else,” he says, his smile turning into a grin.  
“Alright, have fun,” I say trying to make it sound light. This isn’t the first time that I have felt a strange pang that feels a lot like jealousy. But I brush it aside.

After he’s gone I hop up, have a shower and put my pyjamas on. Just as I’m about to hop back into bed there’s a knock on the door. I open it, expecting to find that Joey has forgotten his key. But it’s not Joey, it’s Monica. She’s holding a drink and is clearly tipsy. 

“Hey!” I greet her.  
“Cute PJ’s! You’re really livin’ it up here in London huh?” Monica says with a smile.

I look down at my outfit, it is kind of daggy. Purple, with images of horses and archers. But they’re comfortable.

“Well, I … I wasn’t exactly expecting company after… 9:15pm,” I say as I consult my watch, it is quite early and I feel like a bit of dork for being ready for bed so early.

Monica walks into our room looking around.

“Is Joey here?” she asks.  
“Well, the last time I saw him he was heading out the door to go meet that bridesmaid friend of Emily’s,” I tell her, she looks a bit upset at this information, … “So uh, you’re not still upset about what that guy told you are you?” I ask her. 

Earlier, at the rehearsal dinner, a drunk guy who must have been a friend of Emily’s parents had mistaken Monica for Ross’s mother. She’d been quite shocked and offended by his assumption.

“Wouldn’t you be?” she asks me quietly.  
“Well, look it’s been a really emotional time you know, and you’ve had a lot to drink. You’ve just got to let that go okay? I mean you were the most beautiful woman in the room tonight!” I tell her. I’m being honest with her, she had looked really nice tonight.  
“Really?” she asks with a hint of scepticism and also appreciation.  
“Are you kidding? You’re the most beautiful woman in most rooms…” I start to say, but suddenly she cuts me off by grabbing me around the neck and kissing me.

I’ve never kissed Monica before. In fact, I haven’t kissed any of my female friends before. And truth be told I probably would never have tried. But now that she’s kissing me I realise I don’t necessarily mind the experience. It doesn’t stop me from freaking out though.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! What’s going on? You and I just made out! You and I are making out?” I exclaim when we pull apart.  
“Well, not anymore,” she responds, looking at me.  
“But we don’t do that…”   
“I know, I just thought it would be fun,” she says with a shrug.

Fun? No woman has ever used the word fun in a sentence describing any sort of romantic experience with me. 

“How drunk are you?” I quiz her. There is no way she is sober right now.  
“Drunk enough to know that I want to do this. Not so drunk that you should feel guilty about taking advantage,” she replies with certainty.

I consider this for a moment. This may well be my last opportunity to finally bury all the gay stuff and have a legitimate attempt at being straight. It’s not like I’m ready to accept being gay and raise the idea of commitment with Joey. Plus, the repressed side of me is screaming at me to take this opportunity.

“That’s the perfect amount!” I exclaim with only a slight amount of faked excitement. Part of me is actually excited to see where this will lead.  
“Okay!” Monica responds equally excited.

We hop into bed and start kissing again. After a minute or two Monica pulls away.

“You know what’s weird?” she asks me.  
“What?”

Oh God, can she tell that she’s not my normal preference for a partner?

“This doesn’t feel weird!”

I let out a breath and relax.

“I know,” I agree, lying through my teeth. It feels pretty weird to me.  
“You’re a really good kisser,” she says a minute later.  
“Well, I have kissed over four women,” I say in jest. Plus, I have recently been schooled by a master kisser I think to myself. 

We kiss again. The more we do it the less weird it feels. I’m even getting aroused. Perhaps I’m bi-sexual or something. I can do this.

“Do you want to get under the covers?” I ask her nervously.   
“Hm-hmm!” she replies in a non-verbal sign of agreement. Alright here we go, this is happening.   
“Okay!”

We each take our own outfits off, in a fumbling hurried action that isn’t particularly sexy but is still turning me on. I find that I’m actually keen to see her naked. 

“Wow! You’re really fast!” she comments when she realises that I am already naked.  
“It bodes well for me that speed impresses you,” I reply light-heartedly but with a hint of truthful nervousness. My track record with women hasn’t been brilliant in the love-making department.  
“We’re gonna see each other naked,” she says nervously. We’re acting like inexperienced teenagers.  
“Yep!”  
“Do you want to do it at the same time?”  
“Count of three?”  
“One!” she starts.  
“Two!” I reply.  
“Two!” she repeats almost simultaneously, clearly not having expected me to also count.  
“Three!” we exclaim together.

I lift the covers and look down, as does she. Her body is quite thin but also toned across the abdomen, she obviously works out a bit. Her breasts a small and pert with neat round nipples that are a soft tan colour. Her pubic hair is neat and tidy … well she is Monica, I wouldn’t expect anything less. All in all, she looks quite nice. I like that she’s not curvy or voluptuous, her boy-like figure is more appealing. I wonder why.

She has spent an equal amount of time checking me out. Fortunately, my anatomy hasn’t let me down and my cock is well and truly erect. I’m not tiny by any means. Joey, and even some of the strangers from the clubs, have commented about it previously. I apparently have nothing to be ashamed about in that area.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say that our friendship is effectively ruined,” I joke to break the silence.  
“Eh, we weren’t that close anyway!” she replies.  
“Eh!” I parrot. 

We begin kissing again, this time our hands, hers, in particular, begin to wander.

Suddenly there’s a banging on the door as Joey tries to open it but it’s locked. I can hear him fiddling with his key. Oh God, this is going to be awkward, I think to myself.

“Joey! Joey! Joey! J-J-Joey-Joey-J-Joey!” I stammer in a mix of nervousness and also warning for Monica. She heeds my warning and dives under the covers.  
“Hey!” Joey says as he enters.   
“Hey, Joe! I was just watching a movie-e-e…” I say trailing off as I glance at the TV and realise it is off. Joey looks at the TV then back at me, he grins.  
“Oh, dude I’m soooo sorry!” he apologises with a knowing smile. I’m fairly certain I know what sort of movie he thinks I was watching.  
“No! No! No!” I say rapidly trying to reassert the conversation and save some of my dignity.  
“Hey, no-no-no-no! It’s cool! It’s cool! I-I’ll only be a second, I’m still with my bridesmaid, I just … Where are those condoms you brought?” He asks me.

I look at him in exasperation. I can’t believe he is coming up here to not only rub my nose in the fact that he’s easily picked up a woman just after we had passionate sex, but also to take all the condoms. I’d brought them for us to use. If not for my current situation I would have felt betrayed.

“They’re in my bag over there,” I say pointing.  
“Ah,” Joey says rummaging through the bag.

I’m suddenly aware of a hand gently stroking my leg, running up towards my groin. The hand is now running over my cock … Oh, God.

“Uh, could you leave me one?” I ask anxiously. Joey looks over at me with a weird expression.  
“For just you?” he asks confused.  
“Yeah,” I say. I don’t know what else to say. Monica and I are going to need that condom but there is no easy way to ask for it without seeming like a completely oddball. Luckily Joey is used to my rather strange requests and behaviour, especially those of a sexual nature, he brushes it off.  
“Hey listen, why don’t you come downstairs with me? There are some really nice girls down there,” he suggests. 

His eyes are dancing and I know he also means we could potentially hook up into a foursome. We’ve done it before, once, at his request. It actually wasn’t that bad.

“No I-I-I’m fine,” I stammer awkwardly. Monica’s hand is now eagerly stroking my aching cock. It’s all I can do not to wriggle around or contort my face.  
“All right, here you go buddy,” he says tossing me one of the condoms ... “Go nuts.” He then leaves the room.

Monica pokes her head up from under the covers. 

“He’s gone?” she asks.  
“Yeah,” I reply.  
“Oh,” she replies in a strangely disappointed tone, that momentarily confuses me. But I get over it fast enough when she recovers and concentrates on the task at hand. 

Within seconds she is going down on me. Monica is giving me a blow-job. I wriggle down against the pillows and close my eyes. She’s not as good as Joey, and certainly not as good as my regular anonymous guy from the club, but she’s still pretty good. I close my eyes and allow myself to enjoy the experience.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Flashback** - 6.5 years ago (After London and after the Atlantic City trip. When Joey finds out).

“Oh! Ohh! Oh!!” Joey exclaims like a demented monkey. 

Monica and I exchange a knowing glance. Joey’s worked it out. A series of dumb mistakes and badly timed snippets of coinciding information about our supposedly separate trips, like us both saying we’d seen Donald Trump waiting for an elevator or references to an eye-lash curler that Monica left in the hotel room, have resulted in him actually putting two and two together. 

“Joey, can I talk to you for a second?” I ask him, although I have no intention of accepting no for an answer. I grab him and drag him towards Monica's room. Monica follows closely behind.  
“Oohh!! Ohh! Oh-oh-oh! Oh-oh!!” Joey keeps yelling. 

Rachel and Phoebe are looking at us with baffled expressions as if we’re all possessed or something. Joey actually sounds like he is. 

Monica shuts the door firmly behind us, whilst I tackle Joey to the bed and cover his mouth to shut him up.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!” he exclaims even louder. I’m no longer sure if he’s yelling about the situation or any potential discomfort I am putting him in. I am using a fair amount of force to keep him down.

“Yes ... _Yes_ ,” I admit reluctantly as I release him from my grip. 

His face is a picture of bewilderment. I can only imagine what he’s thinking. We hardly have an exclusive relationship, but I guess he figured that if I was going to end up with someone it was probably going to be another guy, not Monica. 

He looks at me …“You?!” … and turning to Monica … “and-and you?!” he asks us both incredulously. 

Monica probably figures that his bafflement is because we’re just good friends who have hooked up, and because I’m just dorky Chandler who no one would have thought she’d end up with. But I know what he’s truly thinking. I silently pray that he’s not going to say anything that will betray me. I plead to him with my eyes, I think he gets the gist. 

Meanwhile, Monica is talking …

“Yes, but you cannot tell anyone! No one knows!”  
“How?! When?!” he asks us.  
“It happened in London,” I tell him.

I prepare myself for his reaction which I know is coming. Sure enough, his face explodes into an expression of shock.

**“IN LONDON!!!”** he yells. He’s looking at me as he says that. I know he’s thinking about what we also did in London, three times.  
“The reason we didn't tell anyone was because we didn't want to make a big deal out of it,” I tell him. 

It’s partly true. It’s what Monica thinks. But I know Joey will know there’s more to it.

“But it is a big deal!! I have to tell someone!” he exclaims. 

Oh God, no way. I’m still not sure if I can make this relationship work yet. I mean Atlantic City was a disaster because we kept fighting and couldn’t relax. I don’t want everyone else knowing just yet and analysing us and our suitability or lack thereof.  
We both grab Joey to hold him back.

“No-no-no-no-no! You can't!” I tell him firmly.  
“Please? Please?! We just don't want to deal with telling everyone, okay? Just promise you won't tell,” Monica pleads with him.

Joey looks at us both, before slouching in resignation. 

“All right! Man, this is unbelievable! I mean, it's great, but…” he trails off. He’s looking at me now. Our eyes meet briefly and his expression clearly has deeper questions behind it. I just shrug and smile at Monica.  
“I know, it's great!” Monica says, smiling at me. She hadn’t noticed the way Joey just looked at me. 

Monica approaches me and we start to kiss. It’s a bit of an awkward kiss, I mean Joey is sitting right there in front of us. But it still feels kind of right. After all, this is what I’ve always been telling myself … and everyone else … I’m straight. 

“Aww, I don't want to see that!” he exclaims in a tone that may have had a twinge of jealousy behind it, but I’m not really listening to him anymore.

We all leave the bedroom shortly after. We have to make some stupid excuse up to satisfy Rachel and Phoebe’s curiosity but somehow it works. Joey leaves shortly after. I wait five minutes before following him. When I get into our apartment he’s sitting on his reclining chair, but he’s not watching the TV or anything. He’s just sitting there quietly. It’s a bit disconcerting.

“Hey, Joe … whatcha thinking about?” I ask him nervously as I approach my chair.  
“What do you think?” he asks me in a flat tone.  
“Look … I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you, Monica asked me not to tell anyone, and I honestly didn’t know how to tell you anyway,” I say hurriedly. 

He looks over at me with an expression that clearly says ‘bullshit’. 

“I think I preferred it when I thought you were on a gay cruise,” he says, referring to an earlier conversation we’d had about Monica’s lost eyelash curler. He’d come to the conclusion that I was cross-dressing on a gay cruise ship … as if.  
“Sorry,” I say, pathetically.  
“So you’re not gay now?” he asks me.  
“I don’t know … I think I might be bisexual. I do care for her,” I tell him. I sink into my recliner.  
“Well, you better not hurt her … otherwise there will be hell to pay,” he warns. I gulp. I don’t know if he’s talking about stuff he’ll do to me or that Monica will do or perhaps Ross. Hell, even Phoebe would be able to hurt me easily.  
“I won’t,” I tell him. At that moment I truly believed that statement.  
“So … you and I …?” he asks me trailing off. There is a distinct twinge of sadness in his voice.  
“I’m sorry mate … I have to give this a chance,” I tell him. 

He looks at me for a moment before swivelling away and then standing and going to his room. He closes his door leaving me sitting there alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **FLASHBACK** – 4.5 years ago (Six months before the wedding).

“Oh, God … yes! Right there … fuck … I’m going to cum!” Joey screams.  
“Yeah? You like that? Cum for me baby … now!” I reply as a push one more time, slamming my hips against his ass. 

He thrusts his hips upward and I watch as his body shudders and he groans appreciatively, releasing himself all over his torso. This sight is very erotic and I find I can’t stop myself from tipping over the edge either … I also exclaim loudly as I spasm and explode within him.

“Oh, Jesus … Chandler … what are you doing to me?” he moans in between rapid breaths.  
“I could say the same to you, geez Joey … I love you so much,” I say spontaneously. Instantly I realise the gravity of my words.

There is a moment of silence, well not totally quiet, we are still breathing quite heavily. 

“You’ve never said that to me before,” he whispers in my ear.  
“I know … sorry,” I say. I’m still inside of him. Laying against his chest. My head is turned away from his face though, he can’t see my fearful expression and I can’t see what his face looks like.  
“Did you mean it?” he asks quietly.

I don’t really need to think about my response. I’m done mucking around.

“Yes,” I answer simply. 

Then I realise the predicament that those words have put us in. I feel absolutely wretched. I think I’m going to cry. He hugs me tightly. I start to sob like a bloody baby. I’m upset because I’m supposed to be getting married to Monica in a few months. But here I am in the arms of my gay lover and best friend, who I’ve just said ‘I love you’ too. I also have a strong feeling that he loves me too. Although he’s right, we haven’t said those phrases to each other before. As if on cue he says it …

“I love you too.” 

This just makes me cry even harder. Not exactly the loving exchange you would expect over such as declaration. 

It hadn’t taken me long to return to Joey’s bed after Monica and I hooked up. I tried to take a break from him, for six long weeks I tried. I gave it my all, and it wasn’t all a farce. I did develop real feelings for her. I’m not a complete insensitive asshole. I would never string her along if I didn’t really care for her or enjoy spending time with her. I even enjoyed our lovemaking. But I couldn’t resist the growing urge to be with Joey again. It was like an addiction. 

Finally, after six weeks, I gave in. I literally pounced on him one night as he sat watching Baywatch. I’d just gotten home from work and the image of him in the darkened room, illuminated by just the glow of the TV had proven too hard to resist.

At first, he’d been hesitant. Questioning my motives. After all, I’d told him we had to take a break. I’d also told him that I wasn’t going to hurt Monica. Everyone knew about Monica and me by this stage, even Ross, so there was no going back. But I had been quite persistent and he’d finally relented. It had been one of our best encounters yet. Nothing like reunion sex.

Now, two years later, I am living with Monica and we are engaged. I am juggling her and Joey with a degree of subterfuge that would make the CIA envious.

“So, what now?” he asks as we separate and begin to clean ourselves up. 

We’re in his room. Monica is out shopping for wedding dresses with Rachel and Phoebe. I’d come over to visit Joey, but I hadn’t gotten much further than the apartment door before we were kissing and falling over ourselves to get to the bedroom. 

“I have absolutely no idea. I can’t exactly back out now. It would be worse than Ross and Emily.”

He nods. We discussed this around the time of the engagement. I’d fretted for ages about whether or not to propose, I knew Monica wanted to get married … and I sort of did as well … but on the other hand, I also knew it was a really bad idea. 

But in the end, the decision was taken out of my hands. Richard had turned up and Monica had started second-guessing our relationship. I was so panicked about fucking up my one chance of heterosexuality and being able to not be gay, at least publicly, that I didn’t see it as the opportunity that it was. To let her go gently. Rather, I confronted Richard, chased after Monica and realised that she did indeed love me enough to propose to me. And I said yes. 

I wasn’t that worried about the idea of getting married. Monica and I have a good relationship most of the time. I’m different around her, goofy, good-natured, loyal, and attentive. All the things that a good boyfriend or fiancé should be. I let her boss me around and she is the dominant one in our sexual relationship. But if I was being truly honest with myself I’d say I’m not being true to myself. I feel insecure. I feel the need to be sarcastic and hide behind my jokes. 

I’m different around Joey. With him, I’m sexy, assertive, masculine, and kinky. He loves it and I love being that person. I don’t make stupid jokes when I’m with him. I don’t need to hide behind humour or protect my image. I can be the man I was supposed to be. But I can’t bear the thought of telling everyone that. Especially now that I’ve gone so far down the commitment path with Monica. What would everyone think? They’d say ‘I told you so.’ They’d hate me for sure. Monica would be hurt, very, very hurt … and I couldn’t bear to let that happen.

“Maybe you should tell her? She might understand …” Joey ventures hopefully. 

I just look at him with an expression of extreme scepticism. There is absolutely no way that Monica will ‘understand’, she will likely kill me … and probably Joey as well. And if she doesn’t then Ross will, or their Dad might. Not to mention Rachel and Phoebe. I’ve seen Phoebe get mad … I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that. 

“No … it’s gone too far for that. Plus, I do love her … part of me is actually excited about this wedding,” I tell him.  
“Yeah … they gay bloody girly part of you,” Joey says in jest. I throw a pillow at him. 

Needless to say, we don’t come up with a workable solution that day, or the next, or the one after. Six months later, Monica and I get married. Joey officiates our wedding. Till death do us part …


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **FLASHBACK** - 3 years ago. (The day before the twins are born).

“What did you say?” I ask him, unable to believe the words I’ve just heard.  
“I’m moving to Los Angeles, my new agent says I have a good shot at the upcoming pilot season, I might get my own show,” he repeats. I stare at him in disbelief. 

I’m sitting on the floor of the bathroom in my apartment. I’m supposed to be fixing a leak under the vanity sink. Monica and Erica are out at a doctor’s appointment. The baby is due in a few days and we’re supposed to be moving out to Westchester shortly after. 

We bought a house a couple of weeks ago. At first, it was a big secret as we weren’t sure how the others would take it. In particular, I’d been nervous about how Joey was going to take it. I’d insisted on us getting a house that had a garage loft. Luckily Monica had agreed. The loft needed some renovations but essentially it was a one-bedroom studio apartment with a small kitchenette and its own bathroom. I envisioned Joey moving in with us. 

But apparently, he had other ideas… he has just appeared in the doorway and laid this piece of news on me.

“Moving? When?” I ask him.  
“Two weeks,” he replies.  
“Why? I thought you were happy on Days of Our Lives … now that they brought Dr. Drake back. I thought you were going to live with us … at least part of the time,” I say, rambling nervously.

He looks at me with a look of pure misery. 

“Chandler … I can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep doing this. If I move in with you guys Monica is bound to find out. Plus, you’re about to have a kid … you’re going to have a real family …” he said, profoundly. 

Joey has a habit of being extremely smart and logical in all matters of sex and relationships. Whereas me, who is normally level headed and responsible, tends to behave spontaneously and absurdly.

“But …” I start to say before realising I don’t have any other words. I’m speechless. The idea of not having him nearby is absolutely foreign to me.   
“You need to concentrate on your family now and I need to start afresh,” he reasoned.   
“But …” I repeat, it’s definitely the only word I can manage.  
“Goodbye Chandler,” he says kissing me gently on the forehead. With that, he turns and leaves.

I contemplate chasing after him. But I don’t. Instead, I roll over on my side in the foetal position and sob. Something has broken inside of me, I can feel it. I lay there for ages in a state of panic and misery. It’s only the sounds of Monica and Erica returning that prompt me to regain some resemblance of my normal self.

Of course, I see him again. The next day Erica goes into labour and we are surprised with twins. Two days later he gives me his going away present … a new chick and duck. Monica is thrilled, not. I’m distraught, but I can’t publicly show much emotion. 

We don’t really get a chance to be alone long enough for a proper farewell. I have to help Monica with the babies and the moving. Joey is wrapping things up at the studio, filming his final few scenes on Days of Our Lives. 

Then it’s all over. We move to the suburbs. He moves to LA. Ross and Rachel and Emma move to Paris. Phoebe and Mike stay in the city but we don’t get to see them very often. Instead, we see a lot more of my in-laws and Monica’s new mom’s group friends.   
I struggle to make new friends. To make it worse the twins both get colic and spend months not sleeping much. My new advertising job is much more hectic, challenging, and lower-paid than my previous data processing position. Our new house is expensive and needs to be furnished and decorated. We have to buy a car. Our savings start to dwindle before running out completely. 

But most of all I miss him … terribly. I even hear through the grapevine that he’s got a girlfriend now. He’s moved on.

Then one day I find myself totally and utterly broken, standing on the platform of my local train station. I’m in a very dark place, mentally. I hear the announcement of the imminent express train. I take a step forward …


	8. Chapter 8

Monica and I drive home from our group session in relative silence. The only conversation is purely functional, we need gas and milk, so we stop to get those things. Her parents are looking after the kids for the weekend, so we have the house to ourselves. It is exceptionally quiet when we get inside. I find myself wishing for the distraction of two noisy toddlers.

“So … what now?” Monica asks as we sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

I look at her with a hopeless expression. I have no idea. 

“I don’t know … Martin says I need to let you decide,” I reply forlornly. 

He has warned me that I may well lose Monica as a result of this. Whilst it was necessary to tell her, it does come with a significant risk factor. No amount of preparation is enough to insulate me from what I imagine is about to happen. I’m sure she’ll leave, and take the kids. I’ll end up living in a small apartment in the city, alone, seeing them every second weekend. Memories of Mr. Heckles and his odd reclusive life in our old apartment building come to mind. At the time I’d been terrified that I was going to turn out like him. Now I could really see it happening, and soon.

“I need some time,” she says simply. I nod. That’s fair. I’ve had years to analyse this situation and months to prepare for this confession, plus I’m the main instigator of the issue. She’s innocent.   
“I can leave … if you want … I’ll ask Phoebe and Mike if I can stay with them,” I suggest. 

I really don’t want to. They will have so many new questions, after all, I’ve managed thus far to convince people that my depression and suicide attempt was a result of extreme financial distress and a typical Chandler freak-out. The whole time Monica has been by my side, supporting me. If I suddenly move out they will know there’s more to the story. Plus, I don’t want to leave … I want her to want me to stay. I want to stay … here … with my family.

“Is that what you want?” she asks me, as if she’s reading my mind.   
“No,” I reply firmly and truthfully. I look at her with sad eyes. She stares back at me for a long time.  
“Stay … I’ll make up the spare bed,” she says, before busying herself with that activity.

We spend the rest of the day doing routine household stuff. I mow the lawn. She cleans. We eat dinner in relative silence. It’s very awkward. It’s actually a relief when I’m able to excuse myself to go to the spare room for the night. But I know I won’t be able to sleep. My mind is working in overdrive. I’m still awake an hour later when the door opens and soft light from the hallway nightlight shines in. Monica is standing, silhouetted in the doorway. She’s wearing the long white negligee that I bought her for Christmas.

“Chandler … come to our bed … I miss you,” she says softly.  
“Are you sure?” I ask hesitantly. I’m not sure what she’s asking. I don’t think she knows herself.  
“Yes, I need to talk to you,” she replies turning and heading back down the hallway. 

I get up and follow obediently. In our bedroom, we climb into bed. She snuggles up to me.

“I know you can’t be a regular husband … physically … but I still want you around … I love you,” she tells me. 

That phrase is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I’m thankful that the room is dark, although I’m fairly sure she knows, my voice betrays me when I try to answer.

“Thank you. I love you too,” I reply, hugging her tightly.

We lay there in pleasant silence for a few minutes, before she lays a suggestion on me that rocks me.

“I think you should visit your Dad.”  
“Really?” I ask, surprised.   
“Yes, and tell her … everything,” she counsels.   
“Oh, God,” I murmur in dread.  
“You have to forgive her, and learn from her, otherwise you will never move on,” she says.  
“You think so?” I ask.   
“Yes … and Martin thinks so as well. I emailed him this afternoon. Apparently, he’s tried to tell you this before,” she confesses to me. 

It’s true. He has. But I wasn’t ready. I’m still not truly ready. But I can appreciate that this is the next logical step in my recovery. 

“Alright,” I reluctantly agree.


	9. Chapter 9

Two weeks later I fly to Nevada.

I have never liked Vegas much. The brash lights, annoying noises, tourists, and a superficial atmosphere that is purely there for the purposes of gambling, entertainment, and lust. But so much of my life is tied up in this city. It’s where my Dad lives, with her partner and it’s where Monica and I first discussed getting married. 

I’ve told my Dad that I’m coming. But I haven’t told her why. We agree to meet in a small restaurant off the main strip, in a quieter area of town. She’s already there when I arrive. Sitting at a table towards the back of the dining area, which thankfully isn’t too crowded.

My Dad is unrecognisable from the person who I remember as a child. When I was in grade school he looked just like the other father’s. Although he never really acted like them. He was much more effeminate and wasn’t into drinking beer or watching sports. Instead, he took me to concerts and romantic movies. Not even my mother did those sorts of things. At the time I didn’t really care, I was just happy to spend time with him. 

All that changed when I was 10. I had become increasingly aware of the tension between him and my Mom. They had some fairly heated arguments that summer, and finally it culminated with the announcement that they were getting divorced. They chose to tell me on Thanksgiving, forever ruining that holiday for me. I also found out the reason for the divorce. He was gay and had a boyfriend, our housekeeper. I barely knew what sex was, but I remember being shocked and confused about that particular revelation. Apparently, my mother had walked in on him with his lover. It had been a total shock for her, and a deal-breaker.

Shortly after the divorce he began to change. Transition is probably the more accurate term. It took a while, but, by the time I was 12 he was living his life as a woman. Dressing in women’s clothes, wearing make-up, jewellery, and speaking in a different tone of voice. To make it worse he insisted on visiting my school like that, he cheered me on in one of my swimming carnivals and started introducing himself to my friends as Helena. That, coupled with my mother’s erotic fiction writing, made my adolescent school years absolute torture.

Then she just left. When I was 13. He moved to Vegas, started a dance troupe called Viva Las Gaygas and stopped visiting me. I wasn’t allowed to travel alone to visit, Mom didn’t want me exposed to all that ‘filth’ as she termed it. Which was actually quite ironic considering what she was exposing me to with her books and her short-lived relationships. 

It was six years before I saw my Dad again. Since then we’ve only gotten together a handful of times. She came to the wedding and also visited after the incident a few months ago, but generally, we’re not close.

“Hello Dad,” I greet her, as I approach the table where she is sitting. It’s not too hard to think of him as a her. The aesthetic cues are fairly obvious and it’s been quite a while since he was a he in that sense. For a long time, I’ve thought of my Dad as a she, although I still call her Dad.

“Chandler, you look better,” she says standing and hugging me. I awkwardly return the hug. She pulls back but still holds onto my shoulders as she looks into my eyes.   
“Yes … much better. I’m so glad,” she repeats nodding and smiling. 

We turn and sit down at the table. A waitress comes over and takes our orders. It’s several minutes before we have a chance to start our conversation. We chat about general topics for a little while. The kids. My job. Her dance troupe, apparently she’s no longer an active performer but she is instructing the new recruits. Finally, the conversation turns towards more difficult topics. 

“So, I assume you have been going to therapy, has that been helping?”  
“Yeah, it’s been quite helpful. Monica and I have been going to group sessions as well,” I tell her.  
“Oh … like marriage counselling? Is everything OK?” she asks in a concerned tone.  
“Not really,” I state bluntly. 

She looks up and her eyes meet mine. I can see her studying me, trying to read my mind. I have no idea whether she is wise to my feelings or situation. We have never discussed this before. 

“Tell me about it,” she finally says. 

So I do. I tell her everything. It takes quite a while. There are tears, on both sides, and a lot of apologies and promises. At the end of the conversation, I am completely emotionally exhausted but somehow much lighter inside. Martin and Monica were right, I needed to do this.

In a sort of paraphrasing conclusion, Dad surmises the basic gist of what she’s already said over the course of our lengthy conversation.

“Chandler … if there is one thing you need to know, it’s that I never, ever, meant to hurt you … or your mother. I should have handled it all differently, I know that now, but I can’t change that. I also know that it’s virtually impossible to be someone who you are not meant to be. You will only make yourself miserable if you don’t allow yourself to accept who you are.”

I look at her for the longest moment. I know she’s right. For the first time, I really know it and I finally feel ready to shout it from the rooftops and embrace it. But something is still bothering me.

“But, what if it’s too late? What if he’s … moved on?” I whisper, thinking about the rumour of Joey’s girlfriend and the lack of communication we’ve had over the past year and a half. 

She reaches over and takes one of my hands in both of hers. 

“That’s a risk you are going to have to take. There are no certainties. Just like you don’t know what your family structure will look like in six months and you don’t know what your friends and extended family’s reactions will be. You have to tell him and you have to make a real effort to commit if he wants to. But you also have to prepare yourself for the very real possibility that he might not be willing,” she says, wisely. 

I contemplate this information for a moment. She’s right, I know that. I’m not looking forward to telling Joey or the rest of our friends and family. Monica is also nervous about that particular event. 

“I’m going to hurt Monica … I already have hurt her … but this will embarrass her so much, it’s just like when Ross found out about Carol and Susan,” I tell her. 

“She’s tough, and you have done this the right way. Unlike me. Telling her the news first in a safe, controlled setting was the best way for her to find out. She hasn’t freaked out yet. Perhaps she won’t. But you’re right, it’s going to be a tough journey. Your marriage is probably going to end.”

“Probably? How could it possibly not end?” I ask, assuming he was just being kind when he used the term ‘probably’. 

“Not necessarily. Chandler this is the 21st century, times have changed. When I came out and transitioned it was the 1970’s in suburban, New York, everyone was much more conservative then. It’s different now. You know that. Your brother in law is co-parenting a child with his lesbian ex-wife, and your friend, Phoebe, wasn’t she a surrogate mother for her brother’s triplets? You and Monica could come to some sort of open marriage arrangement which satisfies everyone,” Dad explains.

I stare at him. I hadn’t even considered this sort of possibility. Would Monica ever go for that? What would it even entail? Freedom to pursue other partners … obviously … but there would have to be rules, surely, and what on Earth would we tell the kids when they get old enough to understand?

Dad is looking at me, I guess he can tell that my mind is working overtime trying to compute that potential scenario.

“Chandler, baby steps … you don’t have to work everything out today. First, you need to have some very important conversations with Monica and Joey,” he tells me. 

I let out a breath and try to relax. Baby steps. I like that term. I can just about handle that concept.

The remainder of our lunch is quite pleasant. With so much history discussed and past grievances dealt with our dynamic seems easier. I can see us become a lot closer in the future.  
___________

The next day, before I leave Vegas, I try to call Joey’s place in LA. I know he was filming in Australia a few months ago but Phoebe told me that he’d finished that now and had returned to California. Unfortunately, he doesn’t answer, and I don’t have his new cell phone number handy. 

I spend the entire plane flight home thinking about how I might broach the concept of an open marriage to Monica. I figure I should probably go see Martin first, before making any rash decisions. 

By the time I finally get home it’s late. I figure the twins are already in bed. Monica is probably also asleep. As the taxi pulls up in the drive I am surprised to see that the lights are on in the kitchen and the living room. She’s still up. Waiting for me perhaps? Oh God, I don’t want to have this talk tonight. 

I unlock the front door and carry my suitcase inside. Monica appears in the entranceway to the living room. She’s holding a glass of wine and she looks at me with a slightly guilty expression.

“I’m going to apologise in advance, just in case this is not what you wanted. I just needed someone else to talk to … someone who understands everything,” she tells me cryptically. 

I look at her with a puzzled expression. Then I realise that there’s someone else in the living room. My gaze travels across the room and centres on the guy sitting on the sofa. He’s nursing a beer and he’s dressed quite nicely in a black turtleneck sweater and dark tan slacks. His eyes twinkle when they see me and he smiles.

“Hello Chandler,” he greets me.  
“Hello Joey,” I reply.


	10. Chapter 10

“I called him a few days ago. Told him everything. I’m sorry,” Monica babbles, trying to determine if I’m angry or not. 

I haven’t moved yet. I’m still standing in the entranceway to the living room. I’m still holding my suitcase. I haven’t taken my eyes off him. But I’m aware that Monica is talking and that I need to answer.

“It’s OK …” I tell her, and her relief is palpable.   
“Chandler …” Joey says to me, trailing off. He stands up and walks over to me.

I’m terrified that he’s going to tell me that he has a girlfriend, a new life, that’s he’s not willing to be my gay lover any longer. I steel myself for a possible rejection. But something tells me that he wouldn’t come all this way just to tell me that … he’s not cruel. 

He closes the distance between us. Then he’s touching my face, gently, just like he did that first time in our apartment all those years ago. I shiver at the touch and at the surge of emotion that is channelling through my body at the moment. I’m still looking at him. Our eye contact has not deviated since I first saw him. 

“You’re here,” I whisper.  
“I’m here,” he replies softly.

My eyes are brimming with tears of happiness. He uses his hand to gently wipe them away. Then he’s kissing me. Hard. Passionately. Urgently. I melt into his embrace and kiss him back with the same amount of passion. Oh, thank God, I think to myself.


	11. Chapter 11

“Well, I’m going to need more wine,” Monica states after a minute of watching us kiss.

I laugh as I pull away from Joey’s embrace. He’s smiling as well.

“I think we need lots and lots of alcohol. I really feel like getting extremely drunk,” I declare. 

I’m not supposed to drink alcohol. It was one of Martin’s pieces of advice, alcohol being a depressant and all. But I don’t care. Something tells me I’m on the path to recovery and this won’t be a setback.

Needless to say, we don’t get much practical talking accomplished that night. Thankfully, both kids sleep through the night and the three of us sit up until the early hours drinking and talking about all kinds of stuff, some of which includes our new life. But with so much alcohol involved it rapidly becomes a non-sensical conversation peppered with all kinds of inconsequential information, questions, and suggestions. But no real solutions.

Joey and I don’t sleep together that night. I doesn’t seem appropriate. But I’m happy to know that in the near future that will definitely be occurring.  
________________

It takes us weeks to work out all the details fully. We engage the help of Martin in the process. He’s amazed at the progress we have managed to accomplish in such a short timeframe. Considering how long it’s taken me to finally accept myself, this turnaround is nothing short of a miracle. I realise how lucky I am to have such an understanding wife and a lover who want to share me.

Essentially what we agree to is an open marriage, just like my Dad suggested. Consisting of ten rules and expectations. 

  1. Monica and I will stay married and stay living in our house.
• Joey will move in, as soon as the apartment above the garage is renovated.  
• He will split his time between here and the city, he’s returning to Days of Our Lives. 
  2. Monica and I will occupy separate bedrooms but not necessarily abstain from sex. 
• Never say never is the general rule regarding our current physical relationship. 
  3. Monica and I will equally split the nights that we parent and the nights we ‘socialise’.
• The kids won’t have access to Joey’s apartment as a general rule.  
• Sundays are a stay at home day/night for both of us, quality family time, just us and the kids. 
  4. All ‘socialisation’ will be extremely discreet. No ‘socialisation’ with others is to occur within the main house.
• The kids are not to suspect anything, at least not until they are older. 
  5. All additional partners who become semi-serious must be vetted and approved by the other spouse (obviously this has already occurred in Joey’s case) before they are allowed to visit the house or meet the kids.
• The kids will be introduced to ‘Dad’s good friend’, Uncle Joey.  
• He will occasionally have basic child supervision rights and duties but nothing major. 
  6. Safe sex is to be practised at all times unless reasonable assurances are in place in regards to commitment and monogamy.
  7. If either Monica or myself ever wants to change the arrangement we have to call a family meeting to discuss the amendments.
  8. If at any stage the kids are having difficulty with the arrangement we will revise the situation.
  9. The advice and support of family and friends will be sought and welcomed as long as it is positive and helpful. If anyone proves to be toxic we will remove them from our circle.
  10. We will continue to attend marriage counselling for at least one year.



I was incredibly surprised that Monica wanted to include the added stipulation to rule #2. She admitted to still being attracted to me and even though she knew our sex life was probably never going to resume, she didn’t want to rule it out altogether. Joey was OK with the inclusion. Although we decided not to include his suggestion which involved regular three-ways. I think we nearly gave Martin a stroke during that particular discussion.

During all these negotiations Joey and I refrained from being intimate. It had been Martin’s suggestion and we had all agreed. It didn’t really seem fair to rush into anything whilst we were still working out all the rules and expectations. It had been hard though.  
Now, after three weeks, it is time to announce it to the world, or at least to our friends and extended family. We decided to split the group, friends then family (classing Ross and Rachel as friends).

My family was probably just going to be told via the phone, Dad already knew, and it’s not like I was close enough to my Mom to warrant a special trip. Monica wanted to tell her parents alone, I think she suspected they were going to react quite badly. Especially her mother who has a tendency to be quite caustic towards Monica and her life choices at the best of times.

We schedule a dinner party for the announcement to our friends, but don’t tell anyone what it is about. We provide enough notice, and impress upon everyone the importance of the event so that they will make an effort to attend. Ross and Rachel are coming from Paris. Phoebe and Mike will be there. Everything is set. But all three of us are complete and utter nervous wrecks.


	12. Chapter 12

“Hello! Come in .. come in,” Monica greets Ross and Rachel at the front door. 

They arrived in New York late last night and stayed at Monica and Ross’s parents place overnight. Emma is currently with her grandparents, along with Jack and Erica. We asked that it be a kid-free occasion.

“Oh my gosh … Monica, the house looks beautiful!” Rachel exclaims as she wanders into the living room. It is true, Monica has done a lovely job at decorating our house. 

Rachel has of course seen the house, but not for several months and there have been quite a few changes in furniture and artwork since then. 

“Thank you, I especially like this set of prints … they’re by a local artist,” Monica tells her indicating the landscape photos hanging on one of the living room walls. Rachel goes over to admire them.  
“Hey man, can I get you a drink?” I ask Ross.  
“Sure … beer will be fine,” Ross replies … “Hey is Joey already here? I thought I saw his new car in the street,” he asks as he follows me towards the kitchen. 

As if on cue Joey comes out from the downstairs bathroom and we almost collide.

“Hi Ross … how’s things … finished that paper-thingy yet?” Joey asks him.  
“Joey, only you could possibly describe a thesis as a paper-thingy … no … I haven’t finished it yet … still 30,000 words to write,” Ross informed him.  
“30,000! Bloody hell … I haven’t written that many words in my entire life,” Joey exclaimed.  
“That’s only about a quarter of the total length. That’s why you get to call yourself a Doctor when the paper-thingy is published,” Ross tells us, although I'm already aware of this. I was there when he wrote his first one.  
“But you’re already a Doctor, why do you need to do it again?” Joey asks.  
“No reason, apart from the prestige and career opportunities it will provide. Plus it gives me something to do in Paris, considering I can’t speak French very well,” Ross says as he opens the beer that I’ve handed him and takes a swig.  
“Well, I’ll drink to that,” I say, proposing an impromptu toast. We all clink our bottles together.  
“So, when did you get here Joey? I thought you were busy with that new play,” Ross asks Joey.  
“I arrived a couple of hours ago. There’s no screening tonight, so I decided to take the car for a bit of spin … do you like it?” Joey asks him. 

Joey’s new car is a Porsche. He’s always dreamed of owning one, and now finally he’s able to afford it. 

“It’s very cool,” Ross agrees.  


Joey and Ross chat for a minute about cars and mileage and premium fuel, all stuff that I have absolutely no idea about. After a while, a thought occurs to me ... “Hey Ross, have you had a chance to see Ben yet?” I ask him. 

Ross rolls his eyes and looks pained.

“No … Susan is being a complete cow, she’s insisting on her and Carol going to see her Aunt or something in Baltimore, even though she knew I was coming this week. I won’t get to see him until our last day, and then only for a few hours because he has school,” Ross tells us.

I groan quietly to myself. Great … Ross is already on edge about unconventional relationships and parenting arrangements. I hope he doesn’t translate that frustration to us when he hears the news.  
Just then we hear Phoebe and Mike arriving so we leave the kitchen and go to greet them. Monica and I exchange a nervous glance as we shepherd everyone towards the dining room. It’s time.  
___________

“Oh, dear God, I’m so glad they’re all gone,” Monica says closing the front door behind Phoebe and Mike who are the last to leave. 

She leans against the closed door and sighs. She looks absolutely exhausted.

“Tell me about it, that was much harder than I thought it was going to be,” I reply as I walk into the living room. Joey is sitting on the sofa.  
“Can you believe Ross? That guy is unbelievable sometimes,” Joey says, recalling the rather vocal and not necessarily pleasant reaction that Ross subjected us to throughout dinner as he demanded answers to a million and one questions.  
“You really shouldn’t have threatened to hit him,” I tell Joey. He looks a bit sheepish.  
“I know … but he was getting on my nerves … what the hell does he care anyway? No one’s hurting him,” Joey replied, defending his actions.  
“Yeah … but he felt the need to defend his sister’s honour … or some macho bullshit like that … I understand, sort of,” I reply. 

Monica snorts.

“As if Ross would ever be able to defend me … I’m more capable of winning a fist-fight against Joey than he is,” she states. 

We both nod. Everyone knows how freakishly strong Monica is, and how weak Ross is. 

“I can’t believe that Phoebe guessed before we even told them,” I say, recalling how Phoebe had asked Joey how long he and I had been a couple. 

She’d come to that psychic conclusion even before I’d had a chance to announce anything. That’s what had set Ross off. He had said a few choice words to me about my treatment of his sister and that had triggered Joey.

We all muse over the night’s events for a moment. Whilst there had been a few heated words and flared tempers I don’t think our friendships were damaged in any major way, Ross had eventually calmed down ... a bit.

“Mike was great,” Joey comments.  
“Yeah, he was a great referee between you and Ross,” I say to him.  
“Must be his lawyer background … he’s good at mediation I guess,” Monica muses.  
“Hey, we should visit them soon … Mike’s playing at the Waldorf now, on Friday’s and Saturday’s,” I suggest, referring to Mike’s passion for classical piano and his new job in the lounge bar of the hotel.  
“That would be nice, I need to get out of this house, I’ll arrange it with Phoebe,” Monica agrees.

We chat for a bit longer before Monica announces that she’s going to bed. It’s late. Fortunately, all the cleaning has been done … Phoebe and Mike had stayed back to help with that. 

“Good night …” Monica says to us as she gets up to head upstairs.  
“Hey Mon?” I call to her, she stops and looks over at me.  
“You were great tonight, thank you,” I compliment her.  
“Thanks … I just hope Rachel is able to calm Ross down before they get to Mom and Dad’s, otherwise he’ll end up spilling the beans before I get a chance to tell them.”  
“She will … she promised me that they would go for a long drive first … he’ll get over it. He’s just being Ross, you know what he’s like,” I reason and she nods in agreement.  
“Night Monica,” Joey calls to her.  
“Sleep well,” I echo.

Then it’s just the two of us.

“I can’t believe that’s finally done … we’ve told them,” I say reflectively.  
“Finally,” he agrees, but with a smile. I know he knows how hard it’s been.  
“Do you want another drink?” I ask him, but he shakes his head.  
“Hey Chandler, I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while now,” Joey says as I start to gather our empty glasses from the coffee table.  
“Yeah?”  
“I’ve made a decision … I’m not going to date anyone else,” he tells me. 

I nearly drop one of the glasses and I make a fumbling juggling motion as I try to catch it. Once I regain my grip on the glass I turn to face him.

“Are you sure? You know I don’t expect that,” I tell him.

We never discussed our own relationship as part of the open marriage negotiations. That contract was between myself and Monica. We figured that any personal discussions about other partners was the exclusive domain of those two individuals. But Joey and I hadn’t had this particular discussion yet.

“Yes, I’m certain. I never really cared for all those girls anyway … well most of them … it was always just sex,” he replies. 

There have been a few women over the years that Joey was serious about, but they hadn’t worked out. I have been his most steady relationship by far.

“Well … thank you … I guess,” I say, unsure what the appropriate response is in this situation.

Joey stands up and approaches me, gently stroking my cheek in the way that he has done many times before, it seems to be his signature move. He takes the glasses out of my hands and places them back on the coffee table. He probably wants to avoid another glass breaking incident like the one that occurred on our first night. 

I know that Monica isn’t going to like the mess, she can’t stand it when glasses and other items are left lying around the living room. I interject and tell him we have to clean up. He rolls his eyes but complies. 

“Shall we?” he asks once he returns from the kitchen. Then he takes my hand and leads me through the house to the stairs that lead up to his new apartment. 

The renovations were completed just the other day. It didn’t need much. Some new carpets, a fresh coat of paint, a new toilet, and some furniture. He hasn’t moved in yet, but the apartment is ready.

We start kissing as soon as we get inside. His tongue urgently caressing my lips, coaxing them open. I comply and we deepen our embrace. It’s not the first time we’ve kissed since he’s come back, but it’s the first time that its likely to go further. We had a deal that we’d wait … so we waited.

After a few minutes, we make our way over to the bed, he slowly starts unbuttoning my shirt. The anticipation is killing me … but he’s intent on taking this slow.

“I want to try something different … if you’ll let me,” he suggests.  
“Different?” I ask curiously.  
“Yeah … I want you to completely relax … let me drive this time,” he says.

I think about this for a moment. We’ve never done it that way before. I’ve always taken the lead, been in control, he’s always been submissive. But now it feels different. This time I don’t have any pressing need to be assertive. I’m not trying to suppress hidden urges that I feel ashamed about. That’s all gone. Now I just want to be with my lover … and it doesn’t matter how. 

“Alright,” I agree, and he grins. I get the impression that he’d been expecting me to balk at that idea.

I fully submit to him that night and he rewards me by being so gentle, so attentive, so erotic. I don’t even feel much pain when he enters me … despite it being my first time in that position. We totally connect with each other that night, physically and emotionally, and afterwards, we fall asleep in each other’s arms, totally spent and satisfied.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later.

“Daddy!” an excited voice calls to me as I cross the front lawn and walk towards the house. 

It’s 6.30pm … I’ve just gotten home from work. We live a short stroll away from the train station and I have to commute an hour to get to the city each day. But it doesn’t really bother me. Mainly because this is the sort of welcome I get every evening.

“Hey mate! How are you … how was school?” I ask Jack as I scoop him up and hoist him into the air like I know he loves. He squeals in delight. 

It’s August. Jack and Erica started kindergarten last week, and every night they have been regaling Monica and me with tales of their new friends, their teacher, and all their lessons.

“It was great! We had sausages and mashed potato for lunch … and Blake brought his puppy in for show and tell,” Jack told me excitedly.  
“A puppy! Really,” I respond, dreading what I know the next question will be. I’m not fond of dogs.  
“Yeah … can we get one … a black labradoodle … just like Blake,” he says as if on cue. I just smile.  
“Maybe, I’ll talk to Mom,” I tell him … “Where is Mom anyway … and Erica?” I ask.  
“Mom’s in the bathroom … Erica is over at Felicity’s place,” Jack tells me, referring to Erica’s best friend who lives down the block.  
“I see, well let’s help out by getting dinner started shall we?” I suggest to him as I start to get some pots out of the cupboard. 

He follows me around the kitchen as I peel potatoes and get the steak out of the fridge.

“The puppy’s name is Arnold … and he’s so cute … can we go buy one tomorrow?” he asks after a few minutes. Damn, I was hoping he’d forget about the puppy.  
“Jack! I told you … we’re not getting a puppy tomorrow, maybe not at all … I have to talk to Dad,” Monica admonishes him as she walks into the kitchen and overhears his latest question.  
“Oh … Mom, no fair!” Jack whines.  
“Look, how about you show Dad your picture … I’ll finish dinner,” Monica suggests.  
“Picture? What picture?” I ask him curiously. 

Monica smiles at me as I go over to where Jack is sitting at the kitchen table. She’s obviously seen the art piece. Jack is in the process of unrolling a large piece of cardboard, I help him by securing the edges with various items from the table. 

“We had to draw a mural today,” Jack tells me proudly.  
“A mural, huh” I repeat back to him.  
“Yeah … it’s a really big picture,” he explains to me in an adorably informational tone. I smile.  
“And what’s your mural about?” I ask him as I sit down at the table.  
“Our family,” he states proudly.

The picture really is a piece of art. It features our house, our car, the big tree in the back yard, what appears to be a black dog in the front yard (wishful thinking on his part), and about ten people dotted around the place.

“Wow, this is really good Jack. So who are all the people, our family’s not that big.”  
“Yes it is Daddy … see, here’s me … I’m playing with our new dog. Here’s Erica, she’s on the swings. This is you … kissing Uncle Joey …” he says pointing to two people standing under the big tree. 

Now that he points it out I can see that the two people do indeed appear to be kissing or hugging or something. 

I look up at Monica, she’s looking over at me. She doesn’t appear to be angry or anything. She just smiles and shrugs her shoulders. Well, I guess the kids were bound to notice or put two and two together at some stage.

“You drew me kissing Uncle Joey?” I ask.  
“Yeah … of course, you love him, and people kiss when they’re in love,” he replies casually. 

I’m completely dumbfounded, I fully expected that little conversation to be a bit more difficult when the time came. But I guess not. My son is certainly a lot better adjusted than I ever was as a child.

“And here’s Mommy … she’s holding Uncle Richard’s hand … they’re in the front yard talking to Nanna Bing,” Jack continued. I snap my attention back to his description. 

Uncle Richard. Yes, it’s true. Richard has returned to our lives. Monica rekindled her relationship with him about two years ago, and they seem to be getting quite serious. He met the kids a few months ago. It had actually gone really well. This arrangement actually suits them. Richard had never wanted to get married or have kids when they had originally dated, he felt he was too old for all that. But this way they both get what they want with very few complications.

“Big Erica and her boyfriend are in the kitchen, they’re helping Grandma and Gramps with the food,” Jack continues, pointing at four people who are pictured inside the house. 

He’s referring to his birth mother, Erica. They’ve met a few times. Erica and Jason, her boyfriend, did indeed visit a few months ago for the kids 5th birthday party. That must be when this picture is set.

“Hey Dad, are you and Joey going to get married?” Jack suddenly asks. There is a large clash as Monica drops a saucepan into the sink. I guess he hadn’t asked her that question earlier. 

I look over at her, she’s busy cleaning up the mess that she’s made, but she glances up at me. With an exasperated expression, she silently communicates ‘You can handle that one’ with her eyes.

“No, I’m married to Mommy … you know that. Why do you ask?” I say, hoping that my answer is sufficient.  
“My teacher Mr. Phillips is getting married, he told our class today, his boyfriend’s name is Simon,” Jack states, casually.  
“Oh, I see,” I say quietly. I had no idea that his teacher was gay … “Well, Jack, you see there are all kinds of different families … some are married like Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Mike, some aren’t like Aunt Rachel and Uncle Ross, sometimes there are two dads or two mom's like Aunt Carol and Aunt Susan, and well, then there’s our family … we’re a bit different,” I tell him.  
“But you’re married …” he says.  
“Yes, we are … but we also have Uncle Joey and Uncle Richard, that’s what makes us special … we have four parents,” I conclude. 

It’s close enough. Joey and Richard do sort of fulfil a type of step-parent responsibility. They have both individually been involved in various outings and errands, Richard has checked their eyes, Joey takes them to Knicks games. They’re both crazy basketball fans.

Jack considers this for a moment before shrugging and starting to roll up his picture.

“Ok,” he states simply.  
“Does that make sense Jack, do you have any questions?” Monica asks him. She’s stopped cooking and has approached the table to listen to our conversation.

Jack thinks for a moment before his face lights up and he smiles. I try to prepare myself for what I imagine may be a tricky question.

“Can Uncle Joey come with us to the pet store to get my puppy tomorrow?” he asks hopefully.

I release the deep breath that I was holding, sighing in relief. Monica just laughs. I smile at her. I guess our kid is pretty well adjusted. One down, one to go … although I’m pretty sure Erica will be fine with it. After all, she’s quite close to my Dad and she had all those questions a few months ago about why he dresses like a woman. After we’d explained that to her she was totally accepting.

“It’s a really nice picture Jack, you are very talented, how about you go pick out a spot in your room to hang it up … I’ll be there is a minute to help,” I tell him and he beams before running off.  
“Well, that went OK,” Monica says after he leaves the room.  
“Yeah, all things considered. We might have to get him that puppy though … I don’t think he’s going to give up on that one anytime soon,” I comment as I rummage through the utility draw looking for pins to hang the mural with.  
“Hey … guess who called me today?” Monica asks me as she gets plates out of the cupboard.  
“Who?” I ask.  
“Lisa.”  
“Oh. What’s she up to? Still teaching those pottery classes?” I ask her.

Ever since that fateful morning nearly four years ago we’ve caught up with Lisa regularly, she’s become a surrogate grandmother to the kids. She originally visited me in the hospital and we’d all cried as we discussed the event. Monica had been so relieved that Lisa had been there on that terrible day that she’d literally hugged the poor woman half to death. After I was discharged she started visiting every few months. She loved our kids and spends hours reading to them, taking them to the park, and listening to their stories. She also wasn’t fazed when we told her about me and Joey and our marriage arrangement. The woman is amazing. 

“She’s good. She wanted to know if we would come to the cemetery with her … it’s the five year anniversary tomorrow,” Monica tells me.  
“Oh God, of course … what did you say? Yes, I hope,” I say, realising the significance of the date.  
“Of course I did. We have to be there at 10.30am, the kids are welcome if we want to bring them.”  
_______________

“Hi Monica, Chandler … hey kids … how are you?” Lisa greets us all as we approach through the gardens and the different rows of plaques that are laid neatly in the grass.  
“Hi Lisa!” We all say in unison. 

I lean forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. Monica does the same and then hands over the bunch of tulips that we have brought with us. The kids, however, each hang from her arms and generally pester her with requests for candy and other trinkets that Lisa normally has in her bag. They know her well. She just smiles and hands them each a treat.

“How are you?” I ask her when we get a moment of peace and quiet. Monica has taken the kids for a short walk to look at the ornamental pond with its collection of fish.  
“I’m OK … it seems better this year. I think I’m in a better place now,” she tells me.  
“That’s good … I guess,” I reply. 

I’m not particularly good at knowing what to say during these sorts of moments. Thankfully, when I’m with Lisa it doesn’t seem necessary to say much. She just seems to understand me and knows what I mean without me having to articulate it.

She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Then she steps forward and places the large bunch of flowers next to the brass plaque that we’re standing in front of. It reads:

_Alistair Thomas  
1st March 1982 – 15th August 2004.  
Much loved son of Barry and Lisa.  
Forever in our hearts._

It’s Lisa’s son. He committed suicide nine months before my attempt. 

She hadn’t been there for him. But she _had_ been there for me.

The End.


End file.
